


The revolutionary and the criminal

by erinlightwoodbane



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Combeferre & Enjolras Platonic Life Partners, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-10 18:49:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5596867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erinlightwoodbane/pseuds/erinlightwoodbane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After finding a hurt Enjolras at a rally, Montparnasse takes him to Combeferre who as always, worries after his young friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Identical Opposites

**Author's Note:**

> An Enjolras and Montparnasse fanfiction because everyone needs more domesticy E/M   
> Also, Enjolras and Combeferre are platonic life partners in this because I have a thing for Protective Combeferre over Enjolras.   
> Hope you Enjoy!  
> Would you like more of this? Let me know!

The revolutionary and the criminal

Like all good things, it started off with something bad.

Montparnasse was a lover of beauty. It did not matter if said beauty was male, female or neither at all. If it was beautiful, he thought it to be his by right alone.  
Montparnasse, for example, knew he was certainly above high standards aesthetically, but praised himself for not being an easy man to love. 

But perhaps love was the wrong word. 

It must be understood that Montparnasse was a terrible young man, albeit handsome, he were much rather to slit your throat than offer you a kind word. He was capable of being charming, yet attraction was spared fleetingly. 

He had never thought himself a man capable of love.

He was not ashamed of who he was and though his voice and clothes were much finer than any other with his ‘occupation’, he was still a man of the streets, preferring to run his business amongst the shadows. 

Perhaps this was the reason he was so attracted to the light.

It was on a cold November morning when Montparnasse first caught sight of Julien Enjolras. He had heard of him of course, but everyone had heard of Enjolras. His names and ideals were whispered around slowly fading embers in the dark streets of Paris, words spoken of a man of fire, bold and passionate and referred to as the most beautiful man in all of France. 

This, in retrospect, would soon be seen as an understatement in Montparnasse’s mind. 

He was on his way to settle some old deals when he heard the faint murmurings of an uprising. Montparnasse, never one to turn down a fight, had disappeared towards the town square like a moth to a flame. 

What he saw before him was an image Montparnasse swore to never forget  
.   
There were not enough words to describe the leader in red’s beauty. Despite having never met the man, he could instantly tell that this boy was Enjolras.  
To put it simply, he was gorgeous, with the kind of looks you only read about in fairytales. 

His hair was long and golden, soft curls cascading down to his lower back, tied with a dark ribbon. Impossibly blue eyes were alight with flame, dark flecks of gold sparkling as he spoke. 

‘Citizens! The time is nigh, but as we wait the days grow longer, our people sicker, and all a while the king sits on his throne of velvet, not giving a damn at all. This is no fairytale. Our children are dying, young sparks losing hope, food is at loss, and care foreign. And what does our oh so esteemed king do about it? The guards dedicated to protecting our country? Nothing! Be outraged citizens! This is not a game of every man for his own, we must unite as one if we wish to bring a new tomorrow. Whether it be of different races, different religions, or love. There is no shame in being who you are, but letting guards rule our lives because of it? That is not a choice at all. Everyday people are killed, killed by the king’s lack of mercy, killed without the honour and respect they so rightfully deserve. They are killed because they are different. Lives both young and old taken away because of how they were born. There will never be equality if our lives carry on like this. Women and men are one, neither superior to one another, neither having the right to be denied of education, of a family, of a life! Join me in this fight, citizens. Join me in this path to freedom, because where there is light, there is hope. Even the darkest night will end, and the sun will rise.’

Montparnasse stares. 

Enjolras’s slim, lithe body is turned towards the crowd, rose lips spilling words of anger, everyone of them infused with passion and rage.  
The crowd lets out a roar of approval.

‘Vive La France!’

‘Death to the king!’

‘Liberty for France!’

The mass of people are alive now, every fibre of their being radiating anger. 

Montparnasse is in awe. One minute the crowd was still , and by the time Enjolras had finished speaking, they were in a frenzy, looking about ready to throw themselves to their knees in sacrifice. 

Thoughtfully, he lifts his eyes towards the makeshift stage, and because God has apparently decided to take pity on Montparnasse’s twisted soul, his eyes lock with Enjolras’s. 

Electric blue meets with deep green, and Montparnasse thinks himself to be in love.

He is so shocked by this revelation, that he fails to see the man standing behind Enjolras, a sharp wooden pole swung high above his head. Montparnasse can only watch as the weapon strikes Enjolras hard on the back of his fair head of curls, and he collapses gracefully to the ground. 

Montparnasse only realises he’s moved when he’s halfway across the square, shouldering his way through the sea of people. 

It is too late of course, Enjolras is already unconscious, long lashes brushing against his sharp, angular cheekbones. 

Montparnasse is not sure if that’s a bad thing or not. 

By the time he reaches the younger blonde, the crowd is finally beginning to disperse, while Enjolras’s condition only seems to have worsened.   
The amount of concern Montparnasse is expressing worries even himself. 

From far away, Enjolras is a God, all light and sharp angles, and he’s still like that up close, except now Montparnasse can see a light gathering of freckles coating Enjolras’s nose, and the way his ears are ever so slightly pointed. There is a flush spreading across his high cheekbones and Montparnasse is almost completely certain that he has a fever.  
God, he doesn’t do anything by halves does he?

Seeing no other option, and being the chivalrous being he is, he hoists the man off the stone and into his arms, noticing that the Golden haired boy was as light as he looked, and his head was gently resting upon Montparnasse’s shoulder, which was incredibly distracting, but could be dealt with later.

It then occurs to him that he doesn’t know where to actually take Enjolras. 

His apartment is out of the question, so he settles the still boy onto a nearby bench to rifle through his pockets.   
This strikes him as odd. He’s never been through anyone’s pockets unless it’s been to look for money. 

Thankfully, there is some sort of flyer in his top pocket, and in what can only be described as a drunken mess, there are the words ‘Cafe Musain’, along with a long list of numerous addresses titled with what Montparnasse assumes are friends. 

With a sigh, he once again resumes his hold on the blonde, frowning when he recieved no reaction. 

They take the back allies, because there would be too many questions asked if they had taken the main streets of Paris. For anyone else, the dark streets would have undoubtedly been terrifying, but for Montparnasse, that dark, forbidding place is home. 

They are not bothered because Montparnasse has a reputation that he’s worked hard to obtain over the years , and any wandering eyes only assume that Montparnasse has found himself yet another conquest, or has actually killed the boy in his arms. 

He is certainly still enough to be assumed as dead. 

Somehow, this does not seem like a good thing. 

They arrive at the cafe in no short amount of time, but Montparnasse is fairly sure Enjolras is alive. 

He hopes he is, anyway.

The Cafe Musain is alive and bustling with energy, people weaving around one another, disappearing into doorways and speaking loudly. 

The cafe itself is not loud, but there is a group of 9 in an upstairs room, a mix of both men and boys, each one of them making enough noise for 10. 

“What if he’s on his deathbed, what then?” A man exclaims, voice rising with hysteria. 

“You’ll be on your deathbed if you don’t shut up.” Another man retorts, and Montparnasse recognises him as Bahorel, a man which he’d fought in a previous brawl. 

And because Montparnasse is who he is, it was an easy win. 

It is clear that they are worried, and each one seems to be on the brink of a nervous breakdown. 

“Enjolras is smarter than all of us combined, and he’s a God. Gods’ don’t get hurt.”   
The man who had spoken is almost painfully ugly, with tired eyes, a nose which has been broken one too many times, and his overall appearance is rather disconcerting in Montparnasse’s eyes. 

He knows he’s in the right place at least, and can’t deny his amusement towards their panic. 

That lasts until he realises that he does infact have a beautiful boy lying still in his arms, with a nasty head wound and ill from fever.   
He sighs inwardly, and thinks it best to alert the group of his presence. 

 

“Apologies for interrupting, but it appears I have something that belongs to you.”

Simultaneously, their heads swivel, alarmed by a handsome dark haired man, and even more startled by their leader lying motionless in his arms. 

“Oh thank God.”  
“What the hell happened?”   
“Is he dead?”

There is a flurry of voices, each one becoming louder and louder as they express their concern. 

A bespectacled man steps forwards, tension running through his body as he moves to take Enjolras from Montparnasse’s arms.   
Montparnasse lets him, albeit reluctantly. 

“What happened? Where is he hurt?” The man demands, holding Enjolras to his chest protectively. 

Enjolras doesn’t move.

“Charmed too meet you too.” Montparnasse replies dryly. 

The man glares.

“He was hit over the back of the head, looks as if he might be ill too.” 

“What am I going to do with you, Julien?” The brown haired man asks, shaking his head, his expression one of fond exasperation as he looks down towards Enjolras.

And then, that same soft look of fondness turns to what can only be described as horror as he presses two fingers to the side of the younger boys throat. 

What happens next can only be described as an organised mess, the noise levels increasing unbearably and the man carrying Enjolras – who is later introduced as Combeferre, thrusts Enjolras into Montparnasse’s arms. 

“Follow me. Now.” Combeferre demands, but the desperation and fear gives away his true motives as he grabs a large medical box and all but sprints out the door.

Luckily, Enjolras is light and Montparnasse has little trouble in following the medical student through crowds and towards a set of apartment buildings. 

The man infront is tall so Montparnasse manages to keep him in his sight as they make their way up old staircases and to an already open door, where Combeferre hurriedly rushes through the apartment and towards a large bedroom, gesturing for Montparnasse to follow. 

The room, although large, is cosy and bookshelves line every wall in the room, each one overflowing with old political books, the vast majority those written by men who were later executed for treason to their country, and philosophers who influenced the French Revolution. Montparnasse, pleasantly surprised, looks on in interest towards the middle of the room where a fine violin lies on a stand, music books stacked beside a window.

“Lay him on the bed, please.” Combeferre says, pushing his glasses up his nose, while at the same time managing to glare at Montparnasse through thin frames. 

Montparnasse, biting down a cruel retort, does as told, and with as much care one might with an infant, lowers Enjolras down onto thin bedsheets, where his golden curls drape over one slender shoulder and past his slim waist. 

“Will our dear sleeping beauty be alright?” Montparnasse asks, smirking at the way Combeferre bristles, shooting Enjolras a protective glance. 

Sensing his discomfort, Montparnasse snorts, “Honestly, you’re acting like I’m going to kill him. Can I not express my concerns? I was the one who carried him all the way back here after all.” 

Combeferre sighs, “He’ll be okay, I believe. I need to check the head wound though, and his fever will probably take a little while to recover from.”

And then as an afterthought, “If you really care, then I’m going to have to ask you to go. I don’t need any distractions.” 

Montparnasse gasps, holding a hand over his heart, feigning offense. 

He bows low, “I’ll come check on him when he’s better then.” 

There’s an indignant shout as Montparnasse strides from the room and onto the streets, all the while whistling to himself as he goes off in search to find something to distract himself from a certain blonde revolutionary .


	2. Roses

Enjolras was nothing if not stubborn. 

Usually, it was a quality Combeferre found rather endearing at most times, but when used during illness, it was insufferable. 

For some reason that Combeferre could not even begin to comprehend with, Enjolras was convinced that he was well enough to work, which led to him attempting to walk to his desk, which then lead to him fainting. 

The fever had not yet broke, and despite Enjolras’s constant reassurances, Combeferre could tell even he was beginning to tire, his eyes were only half open and the stream of suppressed whimpers dulled down into a long, terrifying silence. 

Combeferre worried over all his friends, but Enjolras would always be his top priority, he was Combeferre’s protẻgẻ after all.

He was 18 when he met Enjolras, who at the time, had been a mere boy of 14, weak, hurt and afraid. His so called ‘father’ had disowned him, leaving him alone to rot on the streets of Paris, where he would have most likely died before his second day if not for Combeferre. 

Later, Combeferre learnt that Enjolras had been abused all his young life, both physically and mentally, broken by a man who was meant to have loved him. 

When Enjolras first talked to the older boy of 4 years, he had cried, and that marked the first time Enjolras would let down his marble mask which was so greatly admired. 

Enjolras had been hurt, and ill, and even now he still had scars on his back which only a select few of the Amis knew about. Enjolras had been scared and ashamed, insecure of who he was.

It only made Combeferre love him more. 

Their relationship was not a sensual one, but a brotherly one, siblings in everything but blood. They fought together and laughed together and would one day die together.  
It was Combeferre’s duty to worry. 

Because last time Enjolras had been so ill, Combeferre had been terrified that the younger boy would not survive the night, the leader of red would have fallen, and with him, the revolution. 

It had taken a little longer than a month for Enjolras to recover to what could be considered normal, and even now, Combeferre worried. Their friends worried too, and Combeferre could only imagine what it would have been like for the likes of Gavroche who had never seen his leader in such a weak state. 

Combeferre had seen him in worse.

He headed towards the kitchen, searching for tea. It would be no use in finding a doctor, who would probably just advise Combeferre of what he already knew. 

He had university tomorrow, and while it was an important few lessons, Combeferre would drop them if it meant having to look after his roommate.

Heading back towards the bedroom, Combeferre saw with relief that Enjolras was looking less pale than he had the last night, and the colour in his cheeks had returned too which was a good sign. 

“See? I told you I’d be fine.” Enjolras said as Combeferre sat down next to him, placing a hand against his forehead. It was warm, but not too warm.

Combeferre let out an exasperated laugh, “Enjolras, last time you said that, you fell down the stairs and sprained your ankle.” 

“Perhaps so, but a hurt ankle would not stop the likes of Robespierre would it?”

“Maybe not, but the only reason you didn’t complain is because you had Grantaire fussing over you and sober for the whole week.”

Enjolras flushed, “If Grantaire’s sobriety means my care then I am not going to complain, and though in my eyes, it goes against democracy, it was his own choice. He is his own man Combeferre, as I am mine and you yours.” 

“If you say so, mon petit ami.”

“I do say so!” Enjolras exclaimed, “And very rarely am I wrong!” 

Combeferre could not argue with that, Enjolras was an excellent judge of character. 

Their conversation went on like that for a while, casual talk where Combeferre saw that thankfully, Enjolras did look better.

“Are you sure you’ll be all right on his own? I can cancel if you want.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous, I know you’ve got an important class, with Joly no less. He’ll be convinced you’ve fallen ill if you don’t show.” 

“That’s very true.” Combeferre laughed, and then, “So I’ll see you at the cafe?” 

“Of course.” Enjolras nodded, pressing his lips to Combeferre’s cheek, “Now go, or you’ll be late and it’ll all be for nothing.”   
And with that, Combeferre was gone. 

From where he was leaning against a shadowed wall, Montparnasse watched as the bespectacled medical student left his home before weaving his way through passerby’s until he was out of sight. 

He hummed thoughtfully as he made his way to the apartment buildings, fingers brushing against the petals in his hands. 

Roses seemed rather fitting for the blonde revolutionary- Beautiful yet able to cut. 

Montparnasse was not quite sure how he felt, nor what he would do if it was what he believed it was. 

Montparnasse had never believed in love- and certainly not in love at first sight, and yet something about Enjolras set his insides on fire, one look from Enjolras was worth much more than a kiss from anyone else. 

When he knocked on the door he’d been too only days before, a soft voice called out with “Coming!” 

The door opened, revealing a dishevelled Enjolras, who leaned against the doorframe, and Montparnasse tried not to let his eyes focus on the sharp hipbones which showed as Enjolras moved.

“Can I help you? You’re the man from the rally I believe?” His voice was cool and intelligent, yet Montparnasse could still hear the faint underlinings of passion from the rally. He wondered briefly if he always sounded like that. 

Montparnasse gave him his most charming smile, “I am, and you are the leader in red talked about so greatly. I must admit, your speech was extremely... eyeopening.” 

Enjolras’s back straightened with interest, “I’m glad you think so. Have you much interest in such topics?” 

“I believe in equality, and even more in pretty blondes.”

To Montparnasse’s delight, a light blush flushed across Enjolras’s high cheekbones, and he ducked his head briefly. 

“Tell me,” Montparnasse began, “What is your opinion on same sex relationships?” 

Blinking, Enjolras replied with, “Love is love. We are all human, and no matter what race, sexuality or gender, we should be treated as one, with the same respect shown to others.” 

“That’s brilliant. What would you say if I were to invite you for dinner? Hypothetically of course.” Montparnasse asked hopefully

Enjolras laughed, a soft twinkling sound, and Montparnasse found himself grinning as he said, “Well hypothetically, I would say yes.” 

Montparnasse was suddenly reminded of the bouquet of flowers in his hand, and held them out to a surprised Enjolras with his usual dramatic flourish

“For you, if you’d allow me to invite you out for the remainder of the day?” 

Pleasantly surprised, Enjolras gratefully took the bright roses from the man’s outstretched hands, “If you mean in real life, then yes, that would be lovely. The flowers are beautiful, thank you.”

Still looking at Enjolras, Montparnasse smiled and said, “Beautiful indeed.” 

The younger man smiled and moved to place the flowers in a slightly dusty glass jar. “I’ve never been given flowers before.” He admitted. 

“I’m delighted to be your first.” Montparnasse said, heart pounding in his chest, as he offered Enjolras his arm as he came closer. 

Despite the initial shock, Enjolras gracefully took his arm, and the feeling of soft hands overlapping his own were enough to convince Montparnasse that if he were to die in that moment, it would be in complete bliss.

The rest of the day were spent walking around Paris, both enraptured in one another’s presence as they discussed ideals. Once Montparnasse got him started on the subject, the blonde couldn’t seem to stop talking as his eyes blazed bright as he spoke passionately about a new tomorrow as he called it. 

Enjolras also found that despite Montparnasse’s lack of schooling, he was a very intelligent man who interested Enjolras immensely with his views on even the smallest of things, and by the time 9 o’clock grew near, he found himself disappointed they could not continue their talk. 

“I’ll walk you to your cafe, if you wish.” Montparnasse asked, raising an eyebrow in question 

“That would be nice, thank you.” 

And so, as they reached the cafe Musain, Enjolras reached upwards, and kissed the taller Montparnasse on the cheek. 

The latter brought a hand around the smaller blue eyed mans waist and pulled him close for a kiss, and, as if he had did so a hundred times before, Enjolras’s hand reached up to rest against one side of Montparnasse’s face as he leaned in to their embrace. 

They were interrupted by a light cough, and both beautiful boys turned to see the vast majority of the Amis staring at them, or Enjolras in particular, in various forms of disbelief.

Shooting the group a charming smile, Montparnasse left the now crowded doorway before disappearing into the night. 

“It’s exactly what it looks like?”


End file.
